“Mr Aneeel, this is Korea, you can’t do this,” my host Seo shrieked in exasperation. I stopped in my tracks wondering what I had done wrong and looked at him quizzically.

“You are wearing your shoes inside the house. Sorry, not allowed in Korea,” he said pointing to my feet.

“Oh damn,” I said. “Sorry I won’t do it again.”

“Ok, please be careful next time.”

Despite being from India where most people still keep their shoes outside, I was caught on the wrong foot on my very first day in South Korea, a country which is at once modern as it is traditional--a blend so perfect that nothing seems threatened.

It befuddles a curious outsider that unlike in many countries where tradition and religion are constantly in strife with the modern way of life, often creating a combustible mix for politicians to exploit, South Korea has simply sailed through this dilemma.

Seo is a perfect example of this. A chemical engineer who retired voluntarily at the age of 45 to “enjoy life”, he now rents out one of his two apartments to tourists, while living with his mother, wife and two kids in the other.

And although he claims to be a devout Buddhist, he has no qualms about eating meat of any kind or having a few pints of beer in the evening, as almost all Koreans are prone to doing after attaining adulthood.

A majority of the Koreans profess to be Buddhists, but strangely, quite a few seem to be unaware of where Buddhism originated.

A journalist from Nepal was trying hard to convince a Korean Asian Games volunteer that Buddha was born in Lumbini, in present day Nepal. But he failed to cut any ice despite his best efforts. “No way he is from Nepal,” the Korean ruled. As far as he was concerned, it was enough for him that he was a Buddhist – the finer details he could do without.

That is what set the Koreans apart – retain your identity without obsessing over it and making it the only purpose of your life.

Seo was a perfect host. His business was new and he wanted to make an impression on his guests, even cooking for them and taking them to tourist spots. A fluent Japanese speaker, he was also volunteering at the Asian Games as a translator, catering to the hundreds of Japanese journalists attending the event.

But his English was dicey, in a very quaint and enchanting way.

I told him he should be keeping some fruits like apples and bananas, and even eggs for breakfast and not serve his guests just noodles, cornflakes and bland rice every morning.

He was immediately taken by my idea and was eager to please, but wanted to clarify matters. “Excuse me, what is apple,” he asked, looking confused. I said something like “it’s red and it’s round and it’s very tasty.”

The next day he called me for breakfast and set the table enthusiastically. “Here is your apple, eat,” he said, himself grabbing one and digging into it with relish.

Now it was my turn to be exasperated. “Seo, this is not an apple, but a tomato,” I screamed. “Really? I am sorry,” he grinned sheepishly. “My English not so good.”

Later he told me he spent six months in San Diego some 25 years ago trying to learn English, but could never come to grips with it. However, the younger generation of Koreans are increasingly taking up the language, and many speak it with an impeccable accent, while those who don’t have a grasp over it still manage a few words to get the communication going.

At a local market near my hotel, you could bargain in English with the women with piles of fish stacked in front of them. You could hear words like “pfeesh” and “pfresh” but that would suffice. After all, language is all about breaking barriers and getting the message across. No one can blame them for not being enterprising.

All the women wore lipstick and nail polish and some of them even appeared to have just walked out of a beauty parlour. It struck me that they were immaculately dressed for a job as unappealing as hawking fish. I was impressed. For some reason I thought well-groomed fishmonger women never existed.

At the Main Media Centre, a young Korean woman, Mae, was busy chatting to a group of journalists from Qatar in perfect Arabic.

“Masha Allah, where did you learn to speak such excellent Arabic,” one of them asked her. “At the university, in Korea,” Mae, a volunteer Arabic language reporter with the Asian Games News Service, said.

“You sound like someone from the Arab world,” the journalist from Qatar said. “Shukran,” she replied.

Seo and Mae make a study in contrast – one well into middle age but still struggling to get a few words out of his mouth in English, and the other, a 20 something well at ease with Arabic, a language that takes years to master.

You can find such people everywhere, but perhaps nowhere in the world would you find themselves in perfect harmony with their past and present, at the same time with an eye on the future, as you would in South Korea.

On my last day at Seo’s apartment I had forgotten about his diktat and had my sneakers on as I packed my suitcase in the living room.

“You wearing your shoes again in the house,” he said.

“Sorry, but these are new, I’ve never worn them before, I just unpacked them,” I replied.

Seo smiled gently, perhaps aware that I had lied through my teeth.

“Never mind,” he said. “Let me drop you at your new hotel,” he said, picking up my suitcase. He had become a friend for life.

 

 

 

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